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I awoke to a bright, damp morning with a coolness in my blood and a crispness in my mind. Aric, as usual, was already gone. The storm had passed, the earth yielded softly underfoot, and the pasture glistened in the morning light. Small bands dispersed for their patrols while others set off on the hunt or busied themselves with repairs to the camp. But with no training, no trading, no raiding today, a somberness hung in the air. A strained silence had settled over the camp.
As I walked, bridle over my shoulder, saddle slung against my hip, backs turned to me. I kept my head down and hurried to the pastures to check on the horses. Then I quickly tacked my chestnut gelding, Aruna, and rode off in search of Aric.
I found him down by the mouth of a small, now-swollen stream that emptied into a pond, checking and resetting willow fish traps near the shore. I hobbled Aruna alongside his horse and stood on the bank in the sun, watching. His boots, warbelt, and caftan lay on the bank, and his trousers were rolled up past his knees as he slogged through the reeds.
“Can I help?” I asked. My hands hated having nothing to do, especially on this day.
He didn’t look up. “Almost finished.”
“You don’t build weirs to catch fish and eels?”
“Who would be here to collect the fish once we move camp? Instead of fish traps, they would become fish tombs.” He worked furiously on a knot tied to a stake in the stream bed.
“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Indeed, in this country, tombs are the only permanent things we build. Only the dead have ceased their wandering—or their bodies have, at least.” Very close to untying the knot that was perplexing him, his expression took on a serene focus. “Heh,” he remarked coolly, sliding the cord free of the stake and lifting the trap from the water, “I got it.”
I wondered how long he’d been at it. Knocked around in the storm, the trap was full of sludge and debris.
“That’s a good, strong funnel. What do you use to hold your bait?”
“Hold it? Nothing. I just throw it in before I tie on the cap.”
“I like to hang the bait inside, so nothing can’t pick at it from outside. I’ll show you,” I said as I cut a handful of stout reeds and began weaving them.
“You’ve done this before.” He finally stopped what he was doing and looked up at me.
“You sound surprised. Everyone must eat.”
“All right, let’s try one your way and see which the fish prefer,” he said, grinning.
It warmed me to see him smiling again. To have someone in the camp speaking to me.
He set the trap on dry land and sat on the bank beside me, squinting out across the water. “And you? You’re good?” he smoothed a white pebble he’d snagged from the shore between his fingers.
“Like you said, nothing broken. Just some bruises.”
“You had fitful dreams in the night.” He cast the stone back into the water.
Did I? I didn’t remember. But if I had, it was rude of him to mention. My dreams were none of his concern. I stood to shuffle down the bank and collect another bunch of reeds from the shore. “Who doesn’t have strange dreams from time to time?”
“You’ve had a scare,” he called after me. “No one would fault you.”
Wouldn’t they? Returning with my bundle, I dropped down beside him, his legs still wet and his feet muddy from the stream bed. “I know the men are upset with me. I understand why, but it isn’t fair either.” I passed him a handful of reeds.
“No.” He began sorting them. “But, it will fade.”
“Will it? They already resent me.”
“I don’t believe it’s resentment so much as fear,” he said, splitting a reed with his knife.
“Fear of me?”
“Of losing control.”
“That’s what men fear?”
“That’s what fear is.”
“Huh.” I tied off the last arch in my basket’s skeleton. “Well, what’s that got to do with me?”
“A woman can unsettle even the most indifferent man at times.” He handed me neatly trimmed strips of reed. “You remind them their control is… limited.”
Good. “Still, Tiranes thanked you,” I said. “It almost sounded like he was grateful to die?” Something about the trial made no sense to me. It had disturbed my thoughts all night.
Bracing the reed strips between the balls of his feet, he began to plait a cord. “Out here, we live on the sword’s edge. We thrive by being bold—able to summon awful fury in the blink of an eye. The bravest among us owe our victories—our very survival—to this. But the violent passions that give a warrior his terrible power don’t belong to him—don’t reside inside his breast—or they would consume him and all those around him.” He tied off the cord and prepared another. “No, to live in the world, he must make his flesh a fortress and keep such daemons at bay. Only when battle calls may he open the gates. But, you should know they also come uninvited. When a man is drunk, weary, or lets his thoughts stray into darkness, he leaves his gates unguarded. Those unable to govern their actions may not remain among us—they go to dwell with Goetosura, who incites bold fury. It is said the Lord of Frenzy chooses sacrifices thus, and His servants gratefully accept. It is an honor, a duty, a blessing.”
I drew a deep breath. “It is a lie.”
He stopped his plaiting and frowned, fixing me in an accusative glare. “How so?”
“You say a man fears losing control. How, then, is losing his wits—his life—a blessing?”
He resumed his plaiting. “A man possessed does not lose control—he gives it up to something greater than himself—a mixed blessing, to be sure. But one to be deeply desired. And to give his life at his Lord’s will? There is no greater glory.”
I gaped at him in disbelief—in reproach. “You use these men to your will and dispose of them when you can no longer trust them. You drive them mad with zealousness and rage, then when they lose control—when you lose control of them—you convince them Goetosura willed it, and their execution is an honor.” I braced myself for his wrath.
He looked up once more from his reed-plaiting, seeking my face, and gently smiled. “Clever Ana. How clearly your eyes see.”
I didn’t want to look at him, but I forced myself to meet his cold eye. “So you don’t even deny it? Do you believe a single word you say?”
“Oh, do not doubt me, I believe. From the moment of our initiation, we are dead men. We live in this realm as wraiths, at the mercy and whim of Artimpasa. Only by Her leave and Goeto’s protection do we last even an hour here. How could this be unless we somehow serve their purposes? With our pledge to Goeto, we become little more than storms that blow at His command; branches that grow and wither at His will. Name it what you like, but the very thing that stirs men to excellence sometimes drives them mad. What stands between inspiration and destruction but the will? Passion is the horse and will the rider. A heedless rider is often run away with or unseated. Every one of us is on the brink of losing our grip. On ourselves, on those around us, on this place. What would become of this Warband—of Skythia—if we let madmen and rogues who lack restraint run wild among us?”
With my bait cage finished, I pulled off my boots. “I honestly don’t know,” I said and waded into the stream, the water bracingly cold.
“Nor do I. And I hope neither of us ever find out.” He reached out his hand to me to pull me to shore. “Come, help me with the next set of traps.”
That night, the mood in camp remained somber, with the men eating quietly and dispersing before dark. I was grateful for the quiet. I had watched the moon’s phases with trepidation all my adult life. And as the moon dwindled, my dread grew. Tonight was a new moon, and that heralded something dire. Knowing when it would come was like foreseeing the coming rain—part observation, part intuition. Something one saw in the skies and felt deep in the bones. Mostly, it came in stealth, with the dark of the moon, just before my monthly time. Or else in times of thirst or pain or distress, when my defenses were weakest.
And if these men mistrusted me before, they must surely never learn of this now. Aric had warned of the dire consequences of possession. I had seen them with my own eyes. I could not afford to reveal the truth to him or any of the men now. Not if I hoped to avoid Tiranes’ fate.
After sunset, I stole away from the gathering and made like I was going out to the pastures. Instead, I broke right outside of camp, over the rise northwest of the river. I found a hollow in a copse of trees where I pulled my cloak over my head and tucked myself beneath the brambles. Concealed in the dark, I waited for it to find me—to make its presence known. Like no earthly thing I could name, the familiar odor was fetid and sweet, like burnt hair and rotten fruit decaying in a tomb. It always sparked the giddy wave of panic now fluttering in my gut. Something, or someone, watched me from inside; looked with my eyes and felt with my skin, but was not myself. Then came recognition; I had somehow lived this exact moment before as if my spirit was dislocated, moving back and forward through hours and places I had been and had yet to go. For all I knew, I was not sensing but remembering. Or something was, as it showed me omens I was meant to apprehend.
The gravity of my thoughts became too much to bear.
Around me, the plain evaporated in faint wisps as shadows seeped in from all sides. My heart thumped. Fingers dug into the earth. And I opened my eyes wide against the inrushing darkness. But the dark was not before my eyes—it came from within me. In rage, in terror, a futile voice inside my mind cried, no, no, n—
The shadows receded, and I roused with a start. A one-eyed man towered over me, clutching a dagger in one hand and an amulet in the other. It was quiet now, but I thought I had heard chanting. He crouched down upon one knee and stared gravely into my eyes.
“Were you… singing?” I asked, utterly confused.
“What have you summoned?” he demanded, frowning anxiously.
I drew a deep breath and lowered my eyes. “I do not summon it. It summons me.”
“Is it still about?” He allowed his gaze to shift from me to glance over his shoulders into the dark of night surrounding us, squeezing the amulet in his fist.
My memory was missing. Of this place, of my name, my past… Confused but unafraid, I peered out onto a broad plain covered in night, and I didn’t recognize any of it. I didn’t know my own skin. Or the calloused hands with dirt-caked fingernails. Men’s clothes. Only the troubled face before me somehow seemed familiar and safe.
“Was I gone long?” I asked.
“Long enough. Hard to tell in the dark. A minute or two, maybe.”
“Aric.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s your name,” I said triumphantly. My own name still eluded me.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“It’s returning, thankfully.” I exhaled deeply and considered my next words carefully.
He let the arm gripping the dagger fall to his side, though his fingers were still pale. “What’s happening?”
“I—I don’t think I can say.”
He stared down at me, leaf shadows dappling his rugged features in the faint starlight. “You’d better try.”
Besides father, I’d never told anyone about the spells—not even the priests. Certainly not a foreigner. It was probably a terrible mistake to tell Aric. But he’d seen. What point was there in hiding now? “Mad as it sounds, I think I die.”
“Your breath continued. You mouthed strange words—to whom did you speak?”
“Truly, I don’t know. I wish I did.” Aric’s revelation was both a relief and a new worry. He asked questions neither of us could answer.
He shook his head. His expression softened into a bewildered smile as he sheathed his dagger, tucked the amulet into his belt, and knelt before me. He took my hands in his and squeezed them a bit too hard. “I have heard of this. Seen the anarei send their many souls to flight in their rites. Your manah has journeyed to the realm of the shades while your form lies waiting. That is why you believed you had died.” His eye widened with wonder. “What did you see?”
“Nothing. It’s all dark and silent. Not even dark; empty. Black and empty like the spaces between the stars.”
He leaned in close. “Tell me all of it.”
I wouldn’t know where to begin or if I even should. I was too confused. I might say the wrong thing and make matters even worse. “Ask me another time?”
He was clearly dissatisfied but nodded.
“Wait,” I shook my head, suddenly disturbed, “you followed me here? For fuck’s sake, do you follow me to the latrine as well?”
“This was the other direction. I thought you might be… meeting someone.”
“Meeting? What do you take me for?”
“Well, you wouldn’t be the first. Besides, you shouldn’t be wandering about at night.”
“I don’t need your supervision!”
“Have you forgotten where you are? Even the men know better than to stray out of camp alone after dark. We all need protection.”
We sat in awkward silence. It was quiet here, and the moonless night was unusually still. Even the nocturnal creatures lay dormant.
“I understand if you wish me to leave the kara,” I said. He would surely tell the king, and the pact between our tribes would be dissolved now all was revealed.
“You swore an oath to god. I cannot send you away,” he said, his voice toneless and grim.
Then it was too late. “Will—” I swallowed hard, “will Tiranes’ fate be mine, also?”
“Why would it…?”
“Because,” my voice cracked, and my eyes began to sting, “I too may harbor some daemon.” There was no place in this world for those who could not master their own bodies and minds. He had made that quite clear.
“This is… different.”
“How do you know?” The night was warm, but I pulled my cloak close around me anyway.
“Because I’ve seen madmen. You harm no one.” He drew a deep breath and took my hands in his once more. “And I have need of you.”
“Need? What need?” I searched his face through the darkness, but he remained a menhir to me, immovable and unreadable.
“Anaiti, the gods gave you a gift.”
Only fools spoke so fondly of things they didn’t understand. “It’s no gift, I promise you.”
“There is a fine line between gift and curse,” he chuckled, “I will grant you that. But I’ve never had a seer in my council.”
“Me? I’m no seer. What do I know of such things?”
“You speak the language of beasts. Look into their minds as if looking through the waters of a spring. And now I witness you in congress with spirits—or the gods even. I don’t comprehend it. But the gods must grant you the two sights for some purpose. Why would they have sent you here if not to reveal it?”
How was I supposed to answer that? Already, I felt like a fraud in this place, acting the part of warrior to eke out a bit of life before wifehood usurped my remaining days. But I wasn’t what he imagined. I couldn’t pretend to be.
When they first began, I also thought the spells conveyed hidden prophecies. They felt so momentous, so urgent, so consequential that they must be messages of cosmic import, sent by those with sight and power beyond this world. But when I searched their contents, there was nothing there. It was long ago that I decided my spells were tricks played upon me by some cruel or callous force of nature. A test, perhaps, but nothing more.
But Aric had been good to me and fair. If he believed I could help him somehow, I should, even though I couldn’t see how. I had nothing of value to offer, though I longed to be of use. I knew in my bones there was nowhere else I belonged more than this inhospitable world I had stumbled into. It was an alien sensation for me, wanting anything of my own. But after I’d tasted pure freedom, how could I choose any other fate?
I had never made plans for a long life. When I looked into my future, I never saw an old woman. But I didn’t fear death. And maybe in some bald logic, it made sense that I should be joined to an old man. I tried to keep my attachments few and thin. Mostly, I kept to myself. But if my time was to be short, I wanted to live. Really live. Not just to survive, but to be alive. I’d given up all hope of that before I came here. And I’d had a taste of it, swept across the plain under these dizzying skies. A brief respite before I either returned and wed or took an arrow to the heart. Those things I’d accepted, too. But what was I supposed to do now? I wasn’t prepared for someone I hardly knew to stand at my back. To keep and defend me, even after what he’d seen of me—of what I was. And it filled every part of me with regret.
“If you truly believe I can be of use,” I said, “I will try my best to help you any way I am able.”
He squeezed my hands, and a smile warmed his whole face, dimpling his cheeks and crinkling his eyes. “I knew you would do me good. From the moment I first saw you.”
“The others will not look so favorably on this.”
“That’s why it will be our secret.” He grinned slyly. “Now, we should get back before the rest of the camp begins to talk.”
Chapter Fifteen: Vision
Oooo I really liked this revelation. I’ve been contemplating what you referenced earlier in the story. Now it makes more sense. I’m liking the direction.
Another amazing chapter! The fish traps are mentioned in Plato’s Timaeus in which likens the human organs to these kinds of traps, with their valves.
The horse she takes to the water is not named. I was wondering what happened to the horse she broke in the earlier chapter? If you did say what happened to that mustang, my apologies. It wouldn’t be the first time I misremembered a detail. And, now that I think of it, it wouldn’t make sense for her to suddenly be riding a new horse during her journey.
I’m impressed with your usage of very precise verbs for things equestrian: to tack, to hobble. Since I know nothing about horses, someone like me writing this scene would have ended up using unnecessarily silly constructs: “She put the tacking on the horse” or “She applied the hobbles.”--Did I ever tell you the story of how Samuel Johnson in his Dictionary famously defined the pastern of a horse as its knee? A woman challenged him on this point, and asked why he had said that. His response was, “Ignorance, Madam...Pure ignorance.”
The conversation about losing power is something I’ve discussed with my male friends for decades. Of course it’s not a uniquely male attribute, but it’s a crucial dimension to understanding male behavior, I think, and its often something roiling about so deeply in their psyche that they don’t know how to express the emotion. For example, the sex act itself is a complete loss of power: complete chaos. I think it’s why some men react so viscerally to it--sometimes negatively--as in retroactively despising it almost immediately after it is over. People who ignore this or simplify it by calling it “toxic masculinity” are missing the point.
Two minor suggestions:
* I think “copse” would read more smoothly than “coppice”.
* In the penultimate sentence of your first paragraph I would recommend removing the word “still”. It’s not necessary, and, without it, you have a nice line of poetry. Read it out loud and you’ll see what I mean, and you’ll also see how the word “still” interrupts the flow.